


nihonshu

by winluvr



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breakup Fic, Character Study, Getting Back Together, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Quarantine, food as plot device, seasons as plot device
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:28:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winluvr/pseuds/winluvr
Summary: In the photo, there is a shock of white hair, a pair of bright beady eyes that used to hold all the brightness of the sun, and not much else. Around his shoulders is someone else's arm, swathing him in a sheet of warmth. The boy is just on the brink of sleep, his steady glare fluttering shut and his wide, syrupy sun smiles softening. Aforementioned boy has his head lying on top of Sachirou's chest. Said Sachirou is tugging his fingers through his mussed hair in an attempt to smoothen it out. Or maybe, in an attempt to make him stay forever, just lying with him like that, just staying with him.Hirugami Sachirou is not a creature of solitude.
Relationships: Hirugami Sachirou/Hoshiumi Kourai
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	nihonshu

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [six feet apart, and then some](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909816) by [honeyedrop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyedrop/pseuds/honeyedrop). 
  * Inspired by [happiness is a butterfly.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26660872) by [devilman (veils)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veils/pseuds/devilman). 



> 1\. quarantine element is inspired by ao3 user honeyedrop please go read their fic linked below  
> 2\. wrote hrhs because of ao3 user eolian :>  
> 3\. hrhs brain rot... hirugami brain rot in general

**WINTER**

“I long for you with a missing that is almost unbearable.”

— Sue Zhao

Hirugami Sachirou is not exactly what you would call a creature of solitude. 

Sachirou heaves a long sigh as he pulls on a new face mask for the day and heads to work. The thick plastic layer of his face shield has been smudged with fog, turning the backdrop of the prefecture into little else but a blur of lights. Walking all the way to work has become a chore by now. Hopping on the seat of his bicycle and pulling on a helmet has become something that he dreads now. Stripping away the clothes he had worn to work, then taking a long bath. It isn’t like there is anything else left to see in the world now. The neighborhood has turned pale gray and depressing and the once neon-lit skyline has turned muddled with a deafening silence for months. His life has been taken over with the reality of having to take up a second business for his sideline, baking chocolate chip cookies and oatmeal cookies and making melon pan and orange chicken for his clients who would be willing to buy them off him.

It’s not like Sachirou enjoys cooking. It’s just another hour of work taken up due to necessity. Buttered shrimp learned from recipes on the Internet, teriyaki on good days, the occasional tuna rice balls. Food made with cautious though unskilled hands, packed in clear plastic containers, all disposable, with a pair of chopsticks to eat them as neatly as possible and several pieces of tissue paper. It’s not like Sachirou wants to cook for a living. But he has to, just to get through the year after his work as a veterinarian turned, well, stagnant through the community quarantine that had been imposed.

Sachirou’s heart aches a little for something that is missing in his life, but he isn’t quite sure what it is. He thinks over to where his family is residing in now, thinks of his obaa-chan. He thinks about his friends from high-school and whether they’re doing okay. One of his old teammates had taken up knitting scarves as a randomly chosen quarantine hobby, another obsessed with playing Animal Crossing. There hadn’t been enough time for him to pick up any.

Sachirou knows he should count his blessings. He’s still alive and healthy. His clients would buy food off his hands, ordering them off the page he made on Facebook. He had struggled to learn the process of creating an order form at first, unsure whether he would be charging too much or asking for too low. But all went well still. He enters the grocery store now, waiting for a miracle, looking for a dream. It's cold outside. He heads to the stall of fresh produce.

  
  


**SPRING**

“A heart's a heavy burden.”

— Dianna Wynne Jones

The sun shimmers just above his head, the skyline flitting past the dark of his eyelids. Light intersects just above the highway, and the city submerges into a hot spring of cherry blossoms. Sachirou tugs at a branch that strokes the top of his head, and out a petal comes.

Sachirou rides his bicycle all the way home, finally able to breathe in some fresh air after an entire day of having his face mask on his nose. His ears ached when he had its loops on, but it still pinched when he pulled them off. His chest aches with the memory of him and Kourai spending the spring together, the world having turned into a feast of blossom. He rides all the way home, a little lost and a little lovelorn. There is a smile on his face, small and genuine.

Sachirou would often have Kourai over during the springtime. He would come over, holding his backpack filled with textbooks they both know they wouldn’t spend any time actually studying in one hand, and his aluminum bento box filled with food that his mother packed for him in the morning. Sachirou would feel a little envious of the treasured bento box, because his mother was usually at work before he even got out of bed. Often, it would have a homemade _ume_ _okaka_ rice ball somewhere, _onigiri_ filled with dried plum and mixed with _bonito_ flakes. _Onigiri_ , then a _tamagoyaki_ and a slab of _shio koji_ salmon. Kourai’s mother liked cooking for her son, liked making sure that he was well-fed. Kourai would give him a portion of his bento, sometimes even larger than what he gets for himself.

Now, Sachirou slips off his shoes at the  _ genkan.  _ Place a new pair of house slippers on his feet from the  _ getabako  _ standing just by the doorway. The welcome mat would look mockingly up at him as he thinks of Hoshiumi Kourai and how he used to drop by his empty house and made it feel like home more than anything in the world.

His welcome mat that says, “Leave your worries and your shoes at the door.” _Leave all of your worries with me._ A visitor would leave their shoes on the getabako near the welcome mat and slip on an off-white pair of house slippers reserved for guests. Although he rarely had anyone over, especially any time now. _They’re safe with me._ They will wear the slippers and slip away into a warm corner of his home. If bold enough, they could ask to sit on the sofa in his living room and he would put on a film to watch on the television. _You’re safe with me._ They will eat dinner sitting on tatami mats. Often, it would be the only meal he knows how to make, his pork shumai with finely chopped shiitake mushrooms in the heart of it. _All of your parts will be tucked away into the corners of my home._ He will take extra care not to scare them away when they visit.

Sachirou remembers Kourai every time he looks at his house and it hurts. It hurts so much that, even when he’s at work, he wants to fold into himself in the comfort of his chair and rub him away from his memories with the cave of his fists.

**SUMMER**

“And I think every once in a while someone comes along who is a little more primitive than the rest of us, a little closer to our beginnings, a little more in touch with the stuff we're made of.”

— Jerry Spinelli

Summer comes earlier than most years and the city is bathed in the warm, all-encompassing syrup of golden sunshine. Sachirou looks over his head and finds that not much has changed ever since. 

In the golden summers where the sunshine would simmer over his head, way back then when the world has not yet quite deteriorated, Sachirou felt the happiest. He would light an aromatherapy candle when he comes home from work and rub at his temples as he sits down alone in his room, basking in the warmth of his solitude and the peace and quiet it brings. Oftentimes it would smell like cherry blossoms so he could remember the first breath of spring, the cusp of summer and winter, where everything had been alright. It would be a seamless transition between the two most beautiful stages of his life. When sakura is out of stock, however, he would pick out the rose scent or settle for magnolia. Bergamot musk, maybe, if his sensitive nose would permit it. He buys a bag of roasted chestnuts to save for later. His passing glance flits by a pack of plum candy.

Sachirou remembers that on rainy days, Kourai would take out a bag of Kappa Ebisen Kishu Plum, cut it open down the top and take out the long chips. the tangy aroma would waft through the air with every bite. Each long senbei stick is covered in sprinkles of red shiso. Sachirou would sit beside him and pour barley tea in mugs. They would sit in silence, put on another film for more than two hours and lay in each other’s warmth. If only it had been forever.

But now, Sachirou would bring nothing but a glass of cold water on the way upstairs. It would leave a ring of condensation on the wood of his bedside table. He manages to wipe it down before he falls asleep just after he downs the whole of it. By the third day, he does not bother to bring water. He swallows his multivitamins dry.

It doesn’t rain here, not in the summer. No hail, no fog, no sleet, nothing. That evening, the world stays dry, free of bothersome precipitation. Sachirou looks at the windowsill just to see the sun. He would look at the window, locate the position of the sun and try to find some warmth in the crooks of his home. What, oh, what is there left to do?

—

A framed photo stays perched on top of his dresser. It’s been there since he was in his third year of high school. It follows him as he takes out his clothes for later, watches him as he pulls on the loops of his paper mask around his ears and slips on his latex gloves for work. The eyes are trained on him wherever he goes, following him even to the  _ genkan _ where he pulls off his bedroom slippers, unfastens the front of his coat and shrugs off his light teal scrubs.

In the photo, there is a shock of white hair, a pair of bright beady eyes that used to hold all the brightness of the sun, and not much else. Around his shoulders is someone else's arm, swathing him in a sheet of warmth. The boy is just on the brink of sleep, his steady glare fluttering shut and his wide, syrupy sun smiles softening. Aforementioned boy has his head lying on top of Sachirou's chest. Said Sachirou is tugging his fingers through his mussed hair in an attempt to smoothen it out. Or maybe, in an attempt to make him stay forever, just lying with him like that, just staying with him.

The photo has stood on top of his dresser for months, but the boy sleeping is not to be introduced to any passing visitors, the photo is not to be called to attention but to stay as it is, a photo that tries to immortalize a thousand memories all in one. A photo that tries to encapsulate a thousand memories in one curious glance. As if to say, look, look at how happy we used to be, before the world had crashed and burned in front of us and there was nothing left for us to do but stand it in its heat, left alone to burrow in the aftermath. 

The photo will follow him around until now. As if to say, look, look at the boy I used to love, the boy I have loved since we were on top of the world. As if to say, look, look at how the boy I used to love, loved me. And he did. He loved Sachirou so much it hurt them both in the end. The aforementioned boy looks like a solitary dream in his arms. All of his nightly dreams rolled into a boy. The boy looks like he has been basking all day in the warm comfort of Sachirou’s love. All the warmth in the world contained in one boy.

—

In the summer, sitting on a wooden bench under the honey-like glaze of the sun, their sun-browned legs swinging as they lean back, Sachirou would often patiently peel a clementine like a flower into Kourai’s waiting hands. He would use his bare hands to peel the shell, the rind down to its pulp. Sachirou would peel the clementine down to the seeds, carving them out with the curve of the nail of his thumb. He would peel the rounder one for Kourai, then the smaller, less even one for himself, setting it beside him.

Sachirou had watched as Kourai methodically peeled off the white pith that lines the inside of the fruit in his hands, scooping up the peel and the white fuzz in one fell swoop and closing his fingers around the cave of his palm, before he put the tender orange pulp into his mouth. They had only been sixteen then, and Sachirou had been so mesmerized with all of the other boy’s gentle movements.

“Kourai-kun, what are you doing?” Sachirou had asked, putting a mindless hand curled around the said Kourai’s wrist, his warmth circling around his hand, but never letting his fingers crawl down and intertwine themselves with Kourai’s own. “Won’t you eat it?”

Kourai had not bothered to look up from his fruit. “I am peeling off the fuzz of this orange,” he had said matter-of-factly, as though it had been the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s bothersome.”

“That's pointless,” Sachirou had told him. “The white fuzz is good for you.” He examines the pith in Kourai’s hands and points at it. “See, all of those little white strings have a lot of fiber in them.”

Kourai had looked at him in confusion. “But it's too dry.” He had continued to shovel orange slices in his mouth, eating it out of his palm with the tenderness, with the care of a child. He had wiped his mouth with the back of his palm and licked his lips. “‘S good.”

Sachirou had conceded with a sigh and went back to eating his own. The fruit he peeled for himself had not been too satisfying. Kourai's clementine sans white pith fuzz did look like it would taste better than his own, but it wasn't like he was about to ask him for a piece of his fruit. Still, Kourai had moved to break off three slices, bigger than his own, and placed it into Sachirou’s hands.

Sachirou slipped his gaze back to the boy, just looking at him. He takes a while to process things as they happen, but eventually he manages to process the clementine in his hands. “Um,” he had said. “You didn’t really have to, Kourai-kun, but thank you.”

Kourai had looked at him and laughed. Bright and sunny like the sun that stretched out over their heads that day. “Why say thank you? It is not that big of a deal to share my clementine with you.” He pauses from laughing then, but remains smiling widely at him. “You’re my best friend, Sachirou.” Oh, oh, how beautiful it is to be understood. “You know I would share anything with you.” Oh, oh, how beautiful it is to be known and to be observed and to be  _ seen. _

Back then, Sachirou had looked at the boy like he had spouted the wisest thing someone could possibly say. Like there had been a revelation of some sort between them as he looked at Kourai.

—

Kourai had ended things with Sachirou on an unassuming Tuesday night after a certain Schweiden Adlers afterparty, the pale orange strobe lights brushing above their heads as they looked up, settling their gazes on one another, and sweeping across their warm bodies as they moved closer, closer and closer still, toward each other. They had orbited in each other’s space and that day, they had only been exploring the rules and restrictions of a friendship like theirs, which had been all so tender and fragile. If their friendship had a label wrapped around it, it would be nondescript. It would have been mundane. Ordinary. Run of the mill. Faded out. But they had loved each other back then, wanted each other so much. Sachirou looked at Kourai then, and saw the whole world falling into place.

Kourai had gotten drunk out of his mind then. He had gone home with Sachirou and hadn’t bothered to do so much as pick himself up from Sachirou’s bed the moment he flopped into it like it was his. “Sachirou,” he had said. Or drawled, even. “I wanna kiss you.”

Sachirou stammered on his words then. “But Kourai-kun, I—” His ears flushed pink as he looked at him. He had been so beautiful then, even more beautiful now, sure, but back then there had been something that pulled him in.. “I shouldn’t kiss you right now.”

“But I  _ want  _ you to,” Kourai had insisted. His breathing had turned shallow then, warm over Sachirou’s parted mouth. “I want you to.”

And so Sachirou conceded. And so he kissed him, tried to kiss him as hard as he could, as hard as he wanted. But he had felt his hands grow icy, his fingers never cupping at the right places of his back, shaking even when Kourai tried to pull him closer to him. He tried, he tried so hard to will himself steady, but he only ended up stiff.

“Sachirou,” Kourai had said, his lips still hovering over Sachirou’s, “why have you gotten so cold now? Why do you feel so cold?”

Kourai had a lump in his throat then, bobbing up and down as he tried to choke down the words. But out the words came, tumbling out of his mouth, one after another, faster than Sachirou knew he could think. “Sachirou, I know you’re my best friend of all time,” he had said. “But I don’t think this will work out in the long term.”

“Kourai-kun,” Sachirou had said, stumbling on his words like he had been the drunk one, “I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to leave me.” He had felt the words creeping up, up,  _ up _ his neck as he tried to speak, but they felt empty, lifeless. “I don’t—  _ please _ .”

But Sachirou had tried to kiss him like it would never end. And oh, if only he had held him a little tighter around the small of his back. He felt his own hands trembling as he came too close to him. And oh, if only he had kissed Kourai so hard that it made him feel like he was coming apart in his hands then being put back together. 

But Kourai pulled away, looked at him with such sad, pitying eyes that Sachirou had wanted nothing else but to tear his gaze away. It had been so pitiful, so pathetic, to be looked at with such careful eyes that he felt himself burning. “I didn’t say I would stop being your best friend, dummy.” He had laughed a little. Sachirou could feel his head spinning then. “But you don’t need me as my partner. At least, I don’t think you really need me to be.”

Sachirou struggled.  _ But I want you, isn’t that enough? Kourai-kun, tell me, couldn’t we ever make it enough? I like you, I like you so bad that I might go insane.  _ But the words never came and he had breathed out nothing so much as a desperate, “Please, please stay.”

Kourai’s voice had turned small, gentle as he spoke. “Someday, Sachirou, I know someone will look at you the way I used to do. I know they’ll love you better than I could. There’s nothing left for us to have, so I gotta let you go now. Someday, I know someone will look after you the way you do to me.” His voice does not even break as he says this, not once. Instead, there is a smile on his face as he looks at Sachirou. Bright and open like a small sun, but so fleeting that if Sachirou had blinked, he would miss it by a second. Sachirou wills himself not to close his eyes.

“Kourai-kun.” Sachirou wants to say,  _ Kourai-kun, Kourai-kun, I don’t want you to leave.  _ Instead, he says, “You can’t do this to me.” His eyes sting from looking at Kourai-kun too long, his lids heavy, his throat dry. “Please.”

“But, Sachirou,” Kourai had said, “I want you to go on with life as it is already. Tell me you won’t be too sad and mopey over this. I don’t want you to feel bad for me or for yourself or for anyone.” He had rested a vacant hand on Sachirou’s chest as he maneuvered himself away from him. “Someday, someone will come find you.”

Sachirou wills himself not to blink even as Kourai looks at him. “But—” His voice already breaks on the first word he tells him.  _ So much for not embarrassing himself. _ “But what if I want you to be the one to do all those things? What if I want you to be the one who’s standing beside me? Have you ever considered what I feel?”

“I’m leaving, Sachirou. We both know it’s never going to work.” Then, Kourai had leaned in to press one last kiss on the corner of Sachirou’s mouth. “It’s not like I’ll stop being your best friend, anyway. Nothing will change.”

Sachirou had cried into his palms then, when Kourai had picked up his bag and left the next day, feeling like he left just as soon as he came. He didn’t want to care too much, he didn’t want to seem like it affected him at all. But this, this felt like one of the things that he should care about. But this, this felt like something worth caring for.

—

Sachirou does not wallow the next day after the incident. Instead, he picks himself up from his bed, pulls his own body away from the floor like it was a second nature. He pulls himself back into the labors of everyday life, not allowing himself to bask into his own loneliness or else he’ll go crazy. He does not tear open the top of the large pack of Lays in Kyushu Seaweed flavor sitting under his pantry where Kourai left it some nights ago. Instead, he had buried himself into the machinations of his work life, his mind still delirious with the dull ache Kourai had left beating under his chest. He lets the practiced, well-loved aches of working swallow him whole.

Kourai’s words ring in his mind, unbidden, unprompted. A ghost haunting him with every step he takes.  _ It’s not like I’ll stop being your best friend.  _ For once, he just wanted to be reassured that he would still have a place in Kourai’s life as it is. It was terrifying, almost, that he had lost a constant in his life.  _ You know I'm always going to be there for you. _ Just once, he wanted him to tell him that.  _ I promise I won’t leave.  _ Just once, he wanted to be nestled into the safety of his arms. Oh, how terrifying. How sad it is to be lonely.

  
  


**AUTUMN**

“Moonlight. Then I took my head in both hands and thought of you.”

— Philippe Toby-Marcelin

On the brink of autumn, Sachirou and his family would travel all the way over to the eastern outskirts of Matsumoto for a special bowl of  _ shinshu soba _ topped with a garnish of  _ kaiware daikon _ . It had become a tradition of sorts for them at this point, waiting for the vendors to dole out bowls of the gossamer noodles covered in  _ tororo.  _ A mountain-like heap of grated mountain yam,  _ negi  _ and fishcake. The nutty, toothsome taste of the noodles blending in so well with the rustic feel of the  _ wasabi _ greens and  _ shichimi.  _ They would take his dog out for a brisk walk along the park, waiting for the commencements of the annual  _ soba  _ festival. He would take 

This is not unusual. Not for them, at least.

Today, Sachirou stands in the kitchen and attempts to make himself a good, home-cooked dinner for the first time in a few weeks since the country entered community quarantine.  _ It shouldn't be too hard to do _ , he thinks as he picks up the pack of soba noodles he bought at the supermarket earlier. Frankly, Sachirou is not a blessed cook. 

Sachirou struggles with the chopping vegetables into fine enough slices. He has a hard time with scooping out the right amount of dried bonito flakes. It isn’t like Sachirou would cook on a normal day anyway, and it’s not like he would cook for  _ fun.  _ Sachirou isn’t the type to cook just for the sake of cooking, the type who would bake just for the sake of piling melon pan on top of each other in the corners of his home.

There would be no one to watch over him as he whips himself up a meal for dinner now. His older sister Shouko, playing volleyball all the way over to the other side of the country for the Red Rabbits, would no longer be there to look over his shoulder as he boils the gleaming noodles in his large pot of water. She would no longer be there to ensure that the rough, nubby  _ nihachi _ noodles wouldn't turn too chewy or too gummy or rid itself of its natural delicate flavor as it basks in the island of unsalted water. His parents wouldn't be there to help him strain the nihachi noodles with his mesh sieve.

With a sigh, Sachirou boils water in the saucepan that his mother had passed down to him a long time ago. He adds the dried bonito flakes into the bowl with one hand, then turns the knob to turn the temperature down. He sets the  _ katsuobushi _ aside to peel the skin of the  _ daikon _ sprout. Grates it, then moves to pick up the green onion and slice it. Mirin, sugar then soy sauce. He boils the mixture, then picks up the pack of soba noodles to place them in the pot of water. The process had been easy to follow, a step-by-step procedure written in basic English from the Internet that guaranteed a total cooking time of twenty five minutes, give or take. In the comments, he says, ‘Would recommend.’

The noodles stretched taut as it boils in the pot, stirred gently so they would not stick to each other. The noodles are drained, the soba water poured into a tall glass for drinking. A practice that his ‘baa-chan passed down to him. She would often pour the saucer of leftover sauce into the sobayu and mix it with the murky white water. Sachirou is a bit too fussy for this so he pours the sobayu into a tall  _ yunomi _ cup instead.  _ Ah, sobayu,  _ Sachirou thinks as he takes the first sip of the liquid,  _ just like grandmother used to make.  _ Ten years’ worth of tradition crammed into a tall cup.

That dinner, Sachirou serves one. Lays out his pair of chopsticks, then breaks them the moment he sets them down. Takes out the shiitake mushrooms from his skillet, then takes a yuzu kosho dip from his refrigerator to glaze the mushrooms with. He clasps his hands together and says his graces. Sends a photo over to his okaa-san, who had asked him how he had been doing so far. She had also asked about Kourai, but that couldn’t be helped now.

After dinner, Sachirou puts away the dishes he had used. The wooden  _ shirowan  _ he had bought for himself from a quaint little cutlery shop just two blocks away, the porcelain saucer, then the shallow dish for soy sauce. Sushi is a rare indulgence now, so he only brings it out every now and then, for the little dishes he fixes up. After cleaning up, he reminds himself to pass by the bakeshop on his way home from work, pick up a pack of bread that they sold for just five hundred yen for three pieces. A chocolate-glazed danish, a red bean bread, then a strawberry tart. All of the little indulgences that he’ll let himself have in the middle of the quarantine.

The night passes like a thief in the night. Kourai drops by his dreams when Sachirou finally lays himself to rest.

  
  


**WINTER**

“As bone hugs the ache home, so I'm vexed to love you, your body, the shape of returns, your hair a torso of light, your heat I must have.”

— Li-young Lee

As the cold, damp depths of the first day of winter approaches their family home, Sachirou's grandmother would make a fuss of little six year old Sachirou. ‘Baa-chan and Sachirou’s mother were extremely fond of curly-haired, pink-cheeked Sachirou back then. 

'Baa-chan would bundle him up in his new winter clothes, making sure to smoothen the creases that had formed from taking it out of his closet. She would help him pull his thermal wear over his head, wind his woollen scarf around his neck and tie it with a little knot and button several layers of coats around him. She would take out the electric heater and warm his comforter before tucking him in to bed and, with her rickety hand brushing away his growing fringe, press a shivery kiss to his forehead as he falls asleep. How easy it is, to fall asleep slowly in the warmth of someone who loves you. 

Then, Sachirou remembers, obaa-chan would make him a piping hot mug of buckwheat tea the moment he wakes up. She would wake up no less than twenty minutes earlier than him to conduct her routines and finicky little rituals for the day. Rituals for good luck, for good health. She would take out his mother's cast iron skillet and stir the buckwheat groats inside them, toasting them until they turn a sun-browned shade, smelling like the earth. 

Buckwheat tea had been a ritual of sorts for good health, for them.  _ It's healthy _ , she had told him when he looked at it for the first time, turned it toward his nose and examined the contents with a mildly scrutinizing gaze. He had probably looked a little worried that it wouldn't taste good. The tea had been a soft light brown color, its complexion only a pale shadow of darkened chestnuts, maybe, or the soil of the earth. It had smelled a little like the sun, or maybe like the roasted chestnuts he loved so much, but with a more delicate scent.  _ It's good for you _ , she had told him before he finally tilted the mug to his mouth with no complaints, a crease between his furrowed brows. His eyes glittered as he took the first sip.

Sachirou looks the recipe up now and makes a mug for himself. It was healthy, he learned earlier when he looked it up on his phone. And so he attempts to recreate an approximation of his obaa-chan’s recipe. Tries to calm himself down before anyone comes, relax his nerves and defrost himself like he’s sitting in front of a fire. Thaws the chilly feel of his fingers with the warmth of the ceramic mug.

The buckwheat tea had been an instant pick-up. Almost like it held something medicinal, something to put him back together, maybe, something to cure all five years’ worth of heartbreak that he knows still lingers somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Said heartbreak causes his stomach to flip at the sight of Kourai in the photos he still kept in his phone, his chest to somersault at the thought of him. The buckwheat tea held something magical, a tisane of sorts.

Sachirou had always wanted to turn this home into something that he could take one look at and know it was his. He had wanted it to become a fruit of his own love and labor. A labor of love, born of his love of labor. He had wanted to share this home with Kourai, once. Sachirou has his hands cupped around the warm mug of his homemade buckwheat tea when the doorbell rings. He stands up, brushes off the lint that has been collecting on his sweatpants, pulls on a mask before the door flings open. Had he ordered anything?

And it hit hims.  _ No. No—  _ no, he’s far too early to be here. But—

Here he comes, standing no less than six feet away from him. The rivering lines of his jaw down his neck as he wipes away a bead of sweat that had formed from all of the layers he was wearing with the back of his hand. Hoshiumi Kourai is standing just under six feet away from him and he looks like he has been waiting for all of the same things as Sachirou. He looks like a dream in the winter.

The visitor looks like a miracle, maybe, if miracles had shocks of white hair and bright beady eyes and not much else. Sure enough, there he is. Hoshiumi Kourai is standing in front of him, a red scarf wrapped around his neck, white coat with the collar popped. Sure enough, Hoshiumi Kourai looks like eternal sunshine, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold, his hair brushed down under his hat.

The visitor slips off their shoes on the  _ genkan _ . The loops of their mask removed from around their ears, the nose-bridge pulled down his chin, then the mask finally set aside to wear again later. He sets down the box of pork  _ shumai _ with extra large fillings and a green pea in the middle that he bought two blocks away from Sachirou’s home. He had walked all the way here, so his breathing came out in jagged, unsteady puffs of air, like he was blowing out the cold.

Sachirou pours warm  _ sake _ from a ceramic bottle. The visitor takes a small, slow sip from it as he cradles the cup in his hands, warmth nestled between his fingers like he’s trying to imprint it on himself.  _ Nihonshu.  _ This is my way of keeping you warm, Sachirou thinks as he sets down two earthenware bowls and two pairs of cutlery.  _ Nihonshu.  _ This is my way of showing you how I love you, now.

That night, Sachirou cooks dinner. A feast enclosed between two sets of cutlery, pairs of hands, two mouths. The soul and heart of the prefecture they grew up in, cooked in one large steaming pot, poured like a stream into their waiting bowls. Fine, delicate  _ soba _ noodles wrapped lazily around their forks, served with generous portions of sliced green onions. The nutty smell wafting through the air, the rustic feeling passing from the noodles to the place to the person. Everything is old and homespun, the noodles hewn by hand and the broth drawn out by the earth. Garnished with a heap of grated  _ wasabi _ to set it all off. That night, Sachirou serves two.

“Are you happy now, Sachirou?” the visitor asks. He wipes down his side of the table with a tissue, spraying it with a small bottle of alcohol before he let: his elbows lean against it. “Just checking.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I am.” Sachirou tries to smile, tight-lipped. His eyes blur as he looks at Kourai, the cold having turned his vision bleary and red-rimmed. “I think I’m doing fairly well in spite of the quarantine restrictions.”

The visitor studies him for a moment, his head tilted to the right in concentration. He takes a piece of  _ shumai _ between his chopsticks, says his graces. “ _ Itadakimasu _ ,” he says, leaning forward.  _ Enjoy the meal.  _ Considers for a while, then says, “But. I can sense a but.”

Sachirou lists things off his fingers. He brings down almost all five of them. “I’m counting my blessings. I know it’s hard to make a living nowadays, so I’m trying to make sure I stay grateful for all of the clients I still get even now. People trust the food I handle. All of us are alive and healthy. And happy. Shouko-nee-san visits me a lot now. Okaa-san too, when they haven’t gotten themselves swamped with work. And I quit volleyball long ago. I’m happy,” Sachirou says, and his throat goes dry. “But not without you.”

Kourai picks up his chopsticks and twists it around the noodles. “We could still make it work, Sachirou.” He speaks through a full mouth. If only we hadn’t… You know, we could have made it if only we hadn’t been so stupid back then. If only I didn’t…”

“I don’t you to blame yourself for what happened.” Sachirou tries to swallow down the lump in his throat along with a chopstick-ful of the dashi-dipped soba. “It’s already been two years without you, Kourai-kun.” The syllables falling so naturally off his tongue it felt like he was calling out his own name, his fingers splayed out over the other boy’s hand. “How could we possibly make it work after such a long time? Do you think we could still make it work?”

“I want to make it work, Sachirou.” Kourai clasps his hands over his. “I want to make it possible with you. I want to make it right.” Then, he brings Sachirou’s shaking hand to his lips, pressing the gentlest of kisses to his knuckles. “I know we can make it work.”

“Okay.” Sachirou manages to breathe out. “I trust you. I know.”

Sachirou wanted nothing more but to make it work. He wanted nothing more but to hold him in his arms again. 


End file.
